Jace pulls up the file on his laptop while I sit on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching the data scroll across the screen. Financial records. Property holdings. Employment history.
"He works for a consulting firm downtown," Jace says. "Officially, he manages investment portfolios for high-net-worth clients. Unofficially, he launders money for half the Custodians on the East Coast."
"Including Moore?"
"Especially Moore." Jace closes the laptop. "If anyone knows where the files are stored, it's him. And if I can get that information, I can give Abernathy something concrete. Something that proves your value beyond fabricated intelligence."
The way he saysyour valuemakes my stomach turn. Like I'm a commodity. An asset to be leveraged.
But that's what I am, isn't it? That's what I've always been.
"How do you get it out of him?"
Jace looks at me. His expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes. A coldness settling into place.
"The same way I get everything out of everyone."
I don't ask him to elaborate. I don't want to know.
But I'm about to find out anyway.
He gets up and shuffles to the kitchen, opening and closing drawers hastily. I follow him and make a cup of coffee.
"You're coming with me."
I'm holding a cup of coffee I haven't drunk, watching Jace load a bag with items I don't want to identify.
"What?"
"The Ministry is due to come back for the welfare check. It’ll likely happen the minute I leave because they’re watching the feeds." He doesn't look up from his work. "If I leave you alone, they'll take you before I get back."
"So I'm supposed to... what? Watch?"
"You're supposed to follow my lead. Stay quiet. Stay out of sight." He zips the bag, slings it over his shoulder. "Can you do that?"
I want to say no. I want to tell him I can't be part of whatever he's planning, can't witness whatever violence he's about to inflict. But the alternative is worse. The alternative is the Ministry, the transport van, the holding cells.
The alternative is going back.
"Yes," I say. "I can do that."
He nods. No praise, no reassurance. Just acknowledgment.
"We leave in ten minutes. Dress warm. It's going to be a long night."
The drive takes forty minutes.
Jace doesn't speak. He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, body relaxed in a way that seems almost unnatural. Like he's conserving energy for what comes next.
I watch the city slide past the window. Streetlights. Closed storefronts. Empty sidewalks slick with rain. Everything looks grey and dead in the predawn darkness.
We pull into an industrial district on the outskirts. Warehouses, storage facilities, the kind of buildings where bad things happen, and no one hears. Jace parks behind a rusted shipping container, kills the engine.
"Stay here," he says. "Lock the doors. If anyone approaches the car, honk twice and drive. The keys are in the ignition."
"Drive where?"
"Anywhere. Just drive until I contact you."
